


Helios Aniketos

by Liaeling



Category: Alexander (2004), Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-10 18:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2036040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liaeling/pseuds/Liaeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Crowned with the aureole of the sun you came from the West, descended upon us into darkness only to begin your ascent from the depths with slowness of speed but indomitable strength. With glory and might, with fire and light... with chaos and death."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first historical fic and I'm really excited about it!  
> Before you start reading I would like to say that comments are always welcome, and they are a great feedback source for my further writings, so it would be wonderful to hear your thoughts on my work, positive and negative alike. Also, English is not my first language and I apologize for any mistakes you might find.
> 
> I will be following the Latin transliterations of every name in this story, mainly for consistency and for visual self-pleasing (Aléxandros is far too removed in history to be used), so you will see "Hephaestion" instead of the usual Greek transliteration "Hephaistion".
> 
> Thank you for stopping by and happy reading!

_"Helios the Sun rides his chariot, he shines upon men and deathless gods, and piercingly he gazes with his eyes from his golden helmet. Bright rays beam dazzlingly from him, and his bright locks streaming from the temples of his head gracefully enclose his far-seen face: a rich, fine-spun garment glows upon his body and flutters in the wind and stallions carry him. Then, when he has stayed his golden-yoked chariot and horses, he rests there upon the highest point of heaven, until he marvelously drives them down again through heaven to Okeanos.”_

_Homeric Hymn 31 to Helios (Greek epic C7th - 4th B.C.)_

 

* * *

The expansive, endless corridors of the palace of Persepolis called upon the darkness. Columns upon columns decorated with Persian flourishing capitals depicting their gods through animal representations and endless repetition of lines and curves hid in shadow, waiting for the god of fire and light to come. The one without face.

What a strange manner to depict the gods, nothing to tie them to anything visible, anything real.

Only fire and light.

Hephaestion was suddenly aware of the noise coming through the long dark corridors he was traversing. He was late to the feast apparently. The taking of the city had been a feat in itself, and it was the first loot the army had enjoyed with the King’s command, and the safe keeping of its immense treasure had been the feast of the conquest. It meant complete freedom from the Greek states. The wealth was accounted for and still uncountable, far more than any King could dream of.

Persepolis: city of the greatest empire of the East, city of King of Kings. And now, city of King Alexander III of Macedon, Persia and Pharaoh of Egypt.

Hephaestion could barely contain his excitement as his footsteps, echoing between columns and getting lost in endless stairs, joined the noise of the feast. _Macedonian_ feast, according to the level of laughter and high pitched delighted screams coming along the corridor.

A night to celebrate what Alexander had once whispered to him, confiding his dream for the first time.

They had been in a place unlike Persepolis, far removed from anything they had so far conquered. Wild greenery and calm mountain brooks surrounded their long ago tutorship by Aristotle in Mieza. Alexander and he would often wander the wild woods in the late afternoons, after their lesson on biology, ethics and politics. Hephaestion could still remember how the falling sun would color everything with an orange tint, including Alexander’s golden hair, making it look almost like fire, alive and hypnotic as he lay down upon the grass.

The only sound would be the singing of the rock thrushes, flying past in search for shelter for the night. Alexander would often stare at him unblinking, waiting for him to say a word to move him into doing anything beyond mere introspection. Hephaestion would always remain silent, struck speechless by the fire in his grey eyes, trying to catch his need for movement in passivity. He would simply lay down by his side, knowing full well that he would begin to pour out his inmost thoughts to him as the sun descended.

He could still remember the words he had whispered in one of those strangely spiritual afternoons. Words that would mark a loyalty and a love he would gladly follow to his death.

_“I swear by Zeus, father of all Gods, that one day I will look upon Persia through the Palace of a Hundred Columns of Persepolis, and the Great Staircase touched by the first rays of sunlight day upon day will be my Throne. And I swear you will be next to me, or victory will taste like ashes in my mouth.”_

Hephaestion couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore. The noise had swallowed even the darkness. The long-ago whispered words resounded on every single column, all hundred of them. An oath, sealed by the sacred wood of Mieza between two fourteen-year old boys was fulfilled before him, beyond double doors.

The night before the Battle upon the Persian Gate, Alexander had promised him that upon his victory they would enter Persepolis and gain the only thing they never had while growing up.

As Hephaestion pushed back the double gates he could very well believe in a new world. Alexander had kept his word to himself and to him. _He_ had taken Persepolis and now _they_ had the only thing they lacked before.

 

* * *

 

“Freedom! Freedom from Persia and from the yoke of shame!”

Ptolemy was trying to find his way through the crowds of highly intoxicated soldiers, trying to avoid stepping upon the lucky few who had gotten an early hold on the hetairas and common prostitutes that had been following them ever since they crossed to Asia. Surely, another toast was coming. More words proclaiming freedom and loot, conquest and lust. The long hall was thronged with what appeared to be the whole army, or at least the ones that could find a way into the _Royal_ celebration.

Ptolemy sighed exasperated, as he found himself before another group of tangled individuals. He could glimpse between the crowds a glittering couch not too far away, Alexander must be upon it, judging by the amount of heads hovering around it.

“Stand by too long and they might stand back, my friend”, a joyful voice yelled in Ptolemy’s ear. He could recognize Perdiccas’ voice anywhere, especially this high pitched thanks to the wine.

“I have no time for your dirty jokes, Perdiccas. I have to get to the King”, he yelled back, aware that only a couple of centimeters separated them.

“Oh, he won’t even notice you now, dearest Ptolemy. Hephaestion finally came back from whatever he was doing with the Persian treasure. Surely these… how do you call these bastards?” he said as he pointed at the mass of skin upon skin before them trying to recover his balance after the movement of his arm.

“I would call them ‘orgiastic bastards’ if you ask me.”

“That, that, exactly… that was the word I was looking for”, Perdiccas half yelled, half whispered back at Ptolemy. “Surely these orgiastic bastards will pay more attention to you… or us… maybe we should join them!”

“That would be an interesting twist”, Ptolemy raised his eyebrows as Perdiccas snorted and repeated to himself ‘twist, twist’. “But I was meaning to go to Alexander, remember?”

A group of five, hardly-clad girls walked past and started encouraging the orgiastic mass to increase the noise by dropping a big casket of wine upon them, changing the lustful conglomerate to a thing resembling a battle field of living corpses.

“What you need, my friend”, started Perdiccas as he approached the five girls, “Is to forget it all. The sweat, the long march, the blood and entrails”, he took one of the laughing girls by the waist and spun her around, pushing her towards Ptolemy. “You only need wine and a girl… or maybe two.”

Ptolemy managed to catch the girl before she fell upon the orgy. She smelled of wine and flowers, she still had some between her tresses, probably from a flower crown she had made for the feast.

She wasn’t nearly as drunk as Perdiccas, yet not nearly as sober as he.

Ptolemy looked beyond the orgy, past the heads of countless soldiers and women of all ages. The girl was already kissing his neck, and the glimmer of the couch he had glimpsed before was gone, lost between the chaos of the feast and the battle for sex.

He looked back at the girl and thought that maybe, after all, battles were made for the loot. And all the gods knew that Alexander had kept them back far too long from it.

It was time they claimed their conquest. It was time for fire.

 

* * *

 

“King of Kings! You have brought the new light to this land!”

Alexander had to blink several times to try and locate the warm female voice that suddenly filled the entire hall. He was aware of his intoxication and the pleasure coursing through his veins at the endless words of praise towards his taking of Persepolis.

Hephaestion was lying next to him on the couch, laughing away at a joke Seleucus had whispered in his ear. Ever since he walked through the doors, Alexander could finally celebrate their victory. He still felt a pulse of paranoia, engraved unto his mind long before he could learn to walk. Everything was so weak, like a thin layer of ice upon a moving river. He had entered the city as King of Persia, but the heart of the empire was spread across a vaster land than all Greece.

He had reason to be paranoid. Too many people, too much power bestowed upon the walls and draperies, columns and mirror-like floors. He knew the human mind too well to feel at ease between his soldiers. No Macedonian King ever died a natural death. Why should a Macedonian King of Persia be treated otherwise?

He felt a familiar calming touch upon his outer thigh. He turned his head, focusing finally upon his nearest companion. Hephaestion was eyeing him intently, communicating to him a calmness he needed. Alexander smiled at him conspiratorially; letting his hand brush his in an attempt to get some stability back through his simple presence.

“She is _the_ Athenian hetaira, isn’t she?” Seleucus said from Alexander’s other side.

Hephaestion nodded towards the woman in question, breaking Alexander’s search for calmness in his eyes.

The King looked towards the beautiful woman, standing right in the center of his view. Clearly, she had intended to be in full view for the whole Royal couch.

“She is and her name is Thais. She is quite gifted in the recitation of poetry and storytelling… among other things.” The voice of Ptolemy proclaimed somewhere behind the couch, something in it betraying feeling.

“You just had two girls; don’t start crying on me, Ptolemy or I’ll get you a boy.” Perdiccas yelled from somewhere below the couch. Alexander suppressed his smile. Perdiccas, the intoxicated and the giver of lovers.

“Quiet, all of you. I think she is meaning to say something.” Alexander said in a low voice, just so his close companions could hear him but not the ones beyond them. Thais had raised her cup and was apparently waiting for silence.

The feast barely noticed her, but Alexander surely noticed her intent look. She was looking straight at him, barely moving. He knew the look; he had seen it in Olympias, his mother, in Sysygambis, his Persian mother and even in Barsine, his Persian lover long left behind. She wanted to speak and she was asking for full attention. She was about to break the rules of class and gender and the words would spill from her mouth, barely pausing, only stopping for the King.

He stared back for some minutes, waiting for her to waver beneath his look. Generals and soldiers alike had wavered in seconds under his grey eyes, yet she stood still as a statue, waiting for a change in the chaos around her.

Once again, Alexander thought that women were far braver than most men. She deserved to be listened.

He stood up, followed immediately by Hephaestion and his companions who fell slightly behind him. The guards standing mere meters away in the sheltered shadows stomped their sarissas on the ground almost on cue, calling for attention.

Every soldier in the hall immediately and without exception, young and old alike, including Generals Parmenion, Cleitus and Craterus on the other side of the hall stood up in an attempt to appear sober and ready for battle.

Silence reined the hall in a matter of seconds. Alexander stood still, looking straight ahead towards Thais, waiting.

She slowly lowered her cup, and without breaking eye contact with the King, she began to speak, first in a low voice, slowly gaining volume and momentum.

“These long venerated halls of the Kings at are your feet, King Alexander. These men and women alike gathered in these halls and in these lands surrounding the city of cities are your people, your conquest and your right. Its riches and pleasures are at your disposal to use as you deem appropriate. The barbaric hold of the Persian Empire is now yours, King of the Arts and Knowledge, the one who fought for every Macedonian and Greek and decreed that this Empire, this barbaric Empire, has fallen to the fire of your Immensity, only to let a new Empire, _your_ Empire, rise from the ashes.”

She paused, letting the words sink into the crowd. Not a sound interrupted the silence. She had full control of every man on the hall.

“And rise from the ashes it will. For they came to Greece not too long ago, burning and looting and destroying everything that we held dear and they thought themselves invincible. They took our people and enslaved them; they took our soldiers and made them fight against their own. They took our _culture_ and spat on it.”

Indignant shouts could be heard throughout the hall, breaking of cups from one corner and low battle cries from the other.

“They never thought a man as young as King Alexander could even scratch their high walls. The bastard boy, they called you. Did you know that, my King?”

Hephaestion took a step forwards, towards Alexander. The King was motionless, his eyes never leaving the hetaira.

“They laughed and sacrificed to their gods not for victory but only to rid themselves of the Macedonian child army. They scorned you, Darius and his whole court, turning their backs on you as you fought in every battle, bled with your soldiers. But they thought you were merely a soldier boy with dreams of a Kingdom. They took pride in their stone halls, waiting for the tribes submitted to their yoke to bring them the gold they needed to launch battle upon battle just to keep you as an untrained pet.”

Hephaestion started to divert his gaze around the hall. The soldiers, intoxicated with wine and pleasure had begun to rise from their stupor and some, the ones closer to the walls, had even taken hold of torches and were waving them in the air intently, shouting words that were lost in the immensity of the place. He looked towards Alexander and he still found him motionless, as if held by a spell.

“And they decorated with gold and draperies the halls you would _never_ take from them. They ruled their Empire from the top of their ziggurats, overlooking your long march and your so-called-victories. To them, in their halls of stone, you were merely an ant in the sand, looking for the path that would lead you _anywhere_.”

Hephaestion found himself feeling panic as he heard Perdiccas behind him clearly shout out “Barbarians Kings, let’s give them fire!”, only to be followed by Thais and her powerful voice.

“And they lit their fires to their god, Ahura Mazda, sure in their thrones that not even the son of Zeus Ammon, proclaimed in Egypt as the Pharaoh, would come and take from them their Empire. But how wrong they were to light the fires. How wrong they were to _not_ think that a stronger fire would come with the name of Alexander!”

The cheers and shouts of the soldiers and hetairas could now be hardly held back from flooding the hall. Ptolemy looked around, suddenly sober and aware of the excitement buzzing everywhere. Before anyone could do anything to stop him, Perdiccas snatched a torch from the nearest wall and almost ran towards Alexander with it.

“Give fire to fire and never let them forget!”

Slowly, very calmly and without uttering a word, Alexander took the torch from Perdiccas’ hand. He only broke eye contact with Thais to look at the flames, and then to look back at her and nod in sudden agreement.

“Let’s burn Persepolis”, he whispered, loudly enough for everyone in the sudden silent hall to hear his words.

Hephaestion took two long strides forward, painfully aware that he was too late to stop anything. Dionysus had spoken through Thais and the fire and chaos had taken hold of Alexander’s mind and it would only spread until it could grow no more.

Ptolemy looked around, panicking as every voice in the hall roared the battle cry and raised the few torches available above their heads. Lust for loot and destruction was back, and it had taken hold of the crowd.

Thais raised her hand, getting silence almost immediately.

“The Persians prayed for light and fire…” she said slowly, almost in a trance. Her eyes were looking at the King and yet they were too far away. “And light and fire they will get!”

Alexander took a stronger hold on the torch and closed his eyes for a second. The Fates had spoken. Persepolis would burn.


	2. Chapter 2

The Great Staircase at the palace of Persepolis received the light of dawn, creeping slowly but steadily upon the hard rock face sculpted to welcome slaves and subdued leaders of men. Up every step the sun rose, illuminating the ashes now covering everything in a haze of grey nothingness.

The air smelled of burnt wood, the earth crept with fallen stones and capitals, walls and columns. The garden that united the palace complex had disappeared to the fire and only the remains of old exotic plants and flowers floated through the air in the permeating layer of ash that kept falling from the sky, like light snow upon the hidden valley.

The Palace had burnt all night long and yet the heat was still there, along with some smouldering fires burning between the destruction of the greatest city of the Persian Empire.

Light met fire, ashes met scorched earth. Mithra had kept the oath. Ahriman had come.

Distance made the remnants of the palace appear as a mirage, Alexander thought as he stood at the edge of his camp. Around him, Orpheus had claimed his soldiers and generals, hetairas and Persian followers alike. Only from time to time a cry in the wind would rise, coming from the other side of the palace. The Persian quarters of those once subject to their Persian King were mourning, praying to Ahura Mazda forgiveness in letting the Horned One destroy his creation. Most of them had killed themselves at the mere sight of fire upon the halls. He had heard their cries, he had seen the blood.

Loyalty to an old King and habit to a life style made them too weak to accept a new one. He better keep that in mind, for his future path would surely take him close to that same crossroad again.

He turned around, tired of looking at the slow spreading light through a great wall of grey mist. Let them mourn while his subjects sleep, maybe one day they’d understand if they’re brave enough to see the sun rise.

He walked slowly to his tent, the one that was once Darius’ tent. Lavish and alien to him almost as the Persian robe on his back. He had never known who had thrown it upon him in the confusion of burning and destroying. Thais was the main guess.

Dionysus was her hands. Dionysus was his fever. His mother had never left him, even if she was back at Pella. She had a hold on him and that made him shiver in the pale light of the new day.

“If I turn back I am doomed” he whispered to himself as he walked a little faster, eager to think of something else beyond the heat and the destruction of the most hateful and most beautiful palace his eyes had seen so far. He didn’t want his mother’s voice reciting the Bacchea hymns between dreams, he wanted oblivion and glory. Glory in destruction. Glory in self-denial.

He walked past his motionless guards, letting the first flap of the Royal tent fall behind him, finally hiding him from the permeating ash that filled his camp as well as his thoughts. He walked past the second tent flap, longing for the smell of thyme he always decreed his servants to keep inside his personal quarters.

A quiet sobbing made him look up before he noticed his tent smelt of ashes too. Right in front of him, sitting on the floor at the head of his Persian bed was Hephaestion, looking straight ahead, away from him. His hair was tussled and instead of its dark golden hue, it looked almost ash brown. His white chiton appeared dirty, ragged and even burnt on one side. His appearance matched his expression, brooding, introspective and almost paralyzed.

The sobbing came not from him but from one corner of the tent, hidden in shadows. There prostrated on the ground lay Bagoas, facing away and curled on his side. His hand was probably obstructing his mouth, for the sobbing came blurred, as through another kind of ash, harsher and more permanent than the one covering Persepolis were impeding him from mourning openly.

None moved as he entered and none dared to speak. Alexander straightened, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be alone.

“You may leave, Bagoas. Do not come back unless you’re called for.” Even his voice sounded choked to him, like his throat had caught the grief present inside the tent.

Quickly and without a sound Bagoas stopped his sobs and stood up, bowing before Hephaestion as he almost stepped on him on his way out. Alexander looked away as Bagoas prostrated before him before exiting the tent.

“One has to admire their self-control” he whispered in a sarcastic tone as he moved towards the table filled with papers and unread letters. He started to take off the Persian robe but found his hands trembling. Hephaestion didn’t even move.

Alexander lowered his hands; staring straight at the back of the tent, wondering what else had Bagoas done when he saw the Palace go up in flames. He thought of Sisygambis and Darius’ daughters. He thought of his mother back at Pella and his father in the house of Hades. He thought of the lands yet unconquered and the sobbing yet to come from all the Persian’s lips.

He didn’t have to look at Hephaestion; he knew they needed time to talk. He knew _he_ needed time to believe Hephaestion approved when he actually didn’t.

Painfully aware of the over sized Persian robe trailing after him; he walked out of the first flap and out the second.

“You are dismissed from your posts, only to form a perimeter around the Royal tent. Ten meters. No one is to come through. No general, no soldier, no royal eunuch and no personal guard.” He was about to turn around and disappear inside the tent when he thought better of it “And send word to Craterus to strengthen the guards around the camp. None may enter the perimeter of the camp under any circumstance.”

As he made his way back into his headquarters he thought of Macedon and Greece and the imminent tribal wars that plagued his father and his father’s fathers. He knew the Persian would only, could only, grieve beyond the Palace but still common sense couldn’t let the matter rest.

Hephaestion was now sitting on the bed, facing the opening flap of the tent. As Alexander entered, he raised himself from the bed and walked slowly towards him. His pace was measured and if he didn’t know him better, Alexander would say it was a little apprehensive.

He stopped one step away from him and Alexander couldn’t help but think that he was all he ever needed. There was no reproach in his face even if Alexander knew there was on his mind. His lips weren’t straight and judgmental, they were relaxed and half open, waiting for a sign from him to speak his mind. His eyes, although a little tired in their night roaming, stared him up and down as his hands slowly came up to unclasp the Persian robe. Alexander raised his arms and took a hold of his wrists as he did, suddenly aware of his heat and his sure presence. For a second his mind had played him a bad move by remembering the fire-engulfed wooden beams and their heat, and the way they fell into nothingness.

Hephaestion was here. His heat was not destructive, his presence was not elusive. He was real and nearby when no one else was. He was kind and protective when he most needed it.

“You are calm”, Hephaestion said in a steady voice as he enveloped Alexander with his arms, trying to get rid of the white and purple robe filled with ash and dust, and even a spot of melted gold.

Instead of stepping aside to help him, Alexander enveloped Hephaestion, locking his arms behind his back and holding on for dear life. Only when he felt the steady beating of his heart, closer to his throat than to his chest, did he realize how much he needed to be told those words. He wasn’t calm. He was as paralyzed as Hephaestion had been when he had first walked into the tent.

Hephaestion finally got rid of the robe and threw it aside, instantly letting his arms fall towards Alexander’s head, fingers caressing his scalp as he placed a light kiss on top of it.

“I am not calm. I’m terrified.” Alexander whispered, aware of the feeling only as he named it.

“I wasn’t telling you how you felt. I was telling you how you should feel.” Hephaestion whispered back, one of his hands falling to the King’s back, pushing him closer still, trying to subdue the chill on his skin, the one he wasn’t even aware of.

They stayed silent for a moment, holding unto each other. Words were never truly needed between them; Alexander had always felt a strong longing for silence whenever he was alone with his lover. He knew his fears as well as his desires, as well as Hephaestion knew his. The hand hovering on his back started to trace slow circles as his other hand left his scalp and fell to his hip.

The burning desire, something Alexander had never fully understood yet always enjoyed. What god ruled beyond pleasure? Only mortality.

He sighed, aware of Hephaestion’s concealed grief. He placed a kiss on the base of his neck, hoping to call upon his words instead of his lust, yet he knew by the way his hand was gripping his hip that no logic would come from his throat, only abandon.

As Hephaestion walked him back towards the Royal bed, letting his other hand grip his hip, Alexander could only think of Thais.

Her burning eyes, her hands lifting the long chiton trying to avoid the falling beams at her feet. The way her mouth let escape the cry of _“Bacchus! Evohe! On, Bacchae!”_ over and over again as she raced between the men setting fire to every object on sight.

He felt Hephaestion’s heat upon him, slowly setting fire to his own skin, letting the madness rush over his thoughts. He thought of his mother and of the time he woke on her bed, barely a walking boy, only to find a white snake by his side instead of her. He saw the red eyes; he felt the horror of that moment as Hephaestion’s hands trailed his scars down his sides. He saw his mother shaking back at forth at the hearth, smell of frankincense and sweat in the gloom and the way her tongue rolled words upon words into the night and Hephaestion kissed his lips and slowly took his tongue between his teeth.

He now saw his father, riding away from Pella with a young girl and his pages by his side into the wilderness and the sound of his mother’s wrath on top of the stairs, banging incessantly on the walls and his Phae held his head between his arms as he got lost inside his impossibly mad being. And then he saw Hephaestion, young and smiling splashing water into his eyes from the river close to Mieza and he heard their laughter and he saw their joy and his General now kissed his chest and his sides, and his hands and legs and feet. He saw himself clad in armor, standing beside his Patroclus also clad in the same attire, both standing in the roof of the Palace of Mieza, wondering how blue the Aegean would look and now he, the King, placed kisses upon his lover’s eyes and lips and chin and wondered how people lived without this, without the ever lingering truth of existence in another being.

Alexander felt his Companion’s blue eyes burning into his own, feeling for once elated at the mortality of his being.

“I’m terrified of losing you.” He heard the words yet couldn’t understand how he had uttered them. His mortal side had spoken.

Hephaestion lay by his side, arms enveloping him entirely. His eyes spoke of the sorrow of separation and the wonder of partaking. He had always been patient with him, Alexander thought of the thousand times he had quenched his sorrows and angers with just a couple of words, he had always been the listener and the soother.

Yet now, as Alexander stared at him, he only saw fear. He saw himself in that look, he saw his panic and his desperation, his need for shared immortality. He never wanted anything more than to conquer Asia, yet as Hephaestion stared at him with horror he only wanted to be back at Mieza, lost in the woods, able to kiss away his Phae’s fears.

He wanted immortality with him.

They kissed lightly, in accord without previous argument. Alexander tasted ashes and blood, unsure if he was the one who had bit Hephaestion’s lips or the other way around. They both had desperate fits for claims already claimed and the ashes were a mere reminder of the fire they also shared.

“I don’t approve of it, but you’re my King and-” Hephaestion’s started to say as he licked Alexander’s lips free of blood.

“I don’t need your approval because I’m your King.” He cut him midsentence a bit too harshly, aware of the mistake as he felt Hephaestion freeze beside him.

A tense silence slowly crept upon them, bodies tense and poised for a battle of wills neither of them wanted to fight. Alexander knew he had spoken as a mere reflex, as he did in Council when any dared to contradict him. Hephaestion didn’t deserve those words; he was merely stating what they had been avoiding since he had walked into the tent.

Hephaestion sighed, rolling his eyes and smiling lightly.

“I don’t approve of it” he started slowly again “But you’re my King and I love you not as King of Kings but as my Alexander and-”.

“And I accept your disapproval but you’re my General and I love you not as General but as my Hephaestion”. Alexander answered quickly, cutting him midsentence again. Hephaestion smiled wider at that, licking his lips and blinking slowly. The throaty chuckle that followed from him made Alexander kiss him quickly, painfully aware of the man’s hold on him.

 “Would you let me finish?” he laughed between light kisses, pouting at first and then asking for attention with a serious expression.

“Do continue, General Phae” Alexander said with the straightest face he could muster.

“Don’t you ever call me that at Council” Hephaestion chuckled quickly and then took a serious expression again. “ _And_ I know that the burning of Persepolis was like the burning of the Acropolis and it was exactly what Athens needed for them to understand that you _are_ the King of Kings now that you have taken revenge for them and now they owe you, they are your subjects, in debt for life.”

Alexander smiled slowly, ecstasy filling his every bone. He understood, of course his Phae would be the only one to understand. He understood his reasons better than he had at the moment and he understood them now better than he had cared to realize.

He looked him up and down, mesmerized at the serious expression on his face and yet there was a tiny light filling his eyes as their gazes locked. Only the one that shared his soul would voice the words he hadn’t even grasped himself.

“Now we can create _our_ empire” Hephaestion whispered as he leaned closer and merely brushed his lips against his.

“We have to catch Darius first” he whispered back, being serious in the turn of the talk.

Hephaestion leaned back, aware of the change of tone in the King’s voice. This was real talk now and the light in his eyes talked of fire and chase, war and conquest.

“Just promise me you won’t risk it all” the General whispered, barely audible in their shared breaths.

Alexander smiled, lovingly letting his hands fall through his still ash-filled hair. He could feel every grain of fallen stone on his skin, every lament of every Persian. He didn’t want to think about Persepolis, Persepolis had burned. Darius had not.

Still, Hephaestion’s hair felt different. He remembered those nights at Pella, hidden behind locked doors at the Prince’s apartments and how he would let his hands dwell in his lover’s hair as he slept by his side. Those nights when no conquest was needed for fulfillment, no Darius to catch and no Persians to conquer, only his Phae’s hair between his hands. And now, his hair was longer, harsh to the touch compared to how it was before. Their life on the march changed even one of his long cherished pleasures.

“Sometimes I forget how much I miss you” he said, trying to explain in a few words the feeling he had been trying to forget. The longing for the past he dreaded, terrified at stopping and looking back.

He needed to look forward, look beyond the flaps of his Persian tent and his Macedonian lover. There was a world burning outside, waiting and calling and he could only think of Hephaestion’s hair, shining by the moonlight back at Pella.

“The army talks” Hephaestion said matter of factly.

And there he was, the one who never let him down, snapping him back to where they were and still saying what needed to be said. Yes, he had heard Cleitus a few days back, on the march to Persepolis. He had said to one of the soldiers that it was only a matter of time before the King would call his “main Companion” to a private dinner to make up for the time lost. Of course they talked; they had their reasons after all. It wasn’t an argument founded on lies.

“They talked when I took Barsine” he said simply, trying to reassure him of his views towards back stabbing with words. He wasn’t scared of small talk at his back. He was afraid of open back stabbing.

Hephaestion looked at him, his palm stroking his side absent-mindedly. He was deep in thought, taking everything into consideration, from the way Alexander lightly mentioned his past mistress to the way he did nothing to stop him from touching him. He thought back on the night Alexander had called him and introduced Barsine to him, presenting him to her as “Alexander’s lover”.

“They didn’t know _we_ both enjoyed Barsine a couple of times” he whispered, hiding a smile.

Alexander threw back his head with laughter, delighted at Hephaestion’s quick wink. Yes, those four nights were memorable.

“We should do that again, I love the way you blush when I stare” He glided closer, kissing his chin while he smiled.

“It’s not shame, it’s jealousy” Hephaestion stated matter of factly behind a casual smile.

That made Alexander stand still. For a moment he realized he had never, ever since they started on their conquest, heard of Hephaestion taking a mistress. No one had ever even whispered a word of a preferred page or a recurred girl. How come he had never thought about it? He really had been jealous of Barsine, not because he didn’t want to share him but because he had no one else.

“Aristotle condemned jealousy” said the King casually, trying to lighten the mood and forget about the idea of Hephaestion sleeping alone while he slept with Barsine or shared a bed with Bagoas.

“He would have condemned you wearing the Persian robe” his lover added, trying to sound as casual as him.

“But Aristotle never left Greece”.

“And he never saw you looking so beautiful with the Persian robe”.

Alexander hid his face on Hephaestion’s neck as he laughed. Only he had the power to turn a conversation about them into a conversation about Alexander. He was too kind and too caring for his own good.

They stayed silent, listening to the sound of the wind outside the tent. Once more the cries of the Persians could be heard in the distance.

“Bagoas will either hate you now or cling to you in absence of anything else” Hephaestion whispered slowly, his chin on top of his scalp, preventing Alexander from raising his head to look into his eyes only to find there the grief he truly felt.

“He’s loyal to me as he was to his former King” Alexander said slowly, not wanting to add more.

“Loyalty is not love” he said simply.

“Love is not safety” Alexander answered.

Silence once more. He broke the silence with a simple “Maybe not…”

Alexander was painfully aware that the mood had changed. He was still enveloped by Hephaestion and he could still feel his kisses on his body yet he felt his lover far away now, lost in a world he couldn’t understand. Love for him was so different from one person to the other, and jealousy meant to him simply a need to reassure oneself of… what exactly? Dominance?

He unwrapped himself slowly from Hephaestion’s embrace, gliding back to look at him. He loved, how he loved the way he simply let him do what he needed without asking and yet he knew Hephaestion always wanted more… he wanted everything.

He raised himself on his elbows, wanting him to understand his next words.

“You are my general now, Hephaestion”.

Hephaestion blinked slowly, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

“That I am.”

“Stop acting like you’re not.” Alexander stated simply.

He furrowed his eyebrows even more, a grim look spread slowly through his face. For a moment, Alexander thought about his father and the way he used to have of staring grimly at him when he disapproved of his words or the words his mother had put inside his head.

“What are you trying to say?” whispered Hephaestion, grim look never leaving his face.

Alexander was aware of how easily this talk could turn into open conflict, but he needed him to understand the facts.

“We are not schoolboys anymore”.

He was met with a rolling of the eyes.

“I know that, but what are you trying to say?”

The King sighed, suddenly exasperated at the man beside him. He lowered himself, head falling to the pillow and looking straight at the ceiling. It wasn’t easy making his most loyal friend understand that he needed him as much as he did before, probably even more than before, but everything had changed. Everything _was_ changing and now more than ever he needed understanding on a whole new level.

“It’s not just you, me and the woods anymore. We can’t be Achilles and Patroclus to my army because I’m not a Prince anymore and you’re not just my Companion. You are my General and I’m the King of Asia”.

Silence once again filled the tent as the King lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. By the corner of his eye he could see Hephaestion, completely motionless too. None spoke; only after a couple of minutes did Alexander become aware of movement by his side. Hephaestion had sat up and reached for his long forgotten chiton on the floor and he was now quickly dressing himself.

“I’m sorry I took your time, my Lord.” He said coldly.

Alexander laughed, thinking that Hephaestion was about to turn around and crack a smile at him. He had the habit of doing that, making rash emotive scenes followed by playful retorts to the King’s words. Only when he finished fastening his sandals and as he started to stand up did Alexander dare to say something.

“Oh, come on, now you’re being childish. You’ll always be my Patroclus, my love”.

That normally broke the act. He would often throw himself into a tantrum to keep up the play or he would normally throw himself back into the bed and pull Alexander into him, whispering harsh words between laughter, kissing away all arguments.

“If you need anything I shall be in the general’s tent”.

Alexander froze. Hephaestion had turned around now and was looking at him. His eyes were cold; his hands were by his side clasped in fists, his lips in a straight line.

“You know I meant that things are different now, but nothing more than-” Alexander started to say very quickly, aware of the turn in the mood inside the tent.

 “If there’s nothing else I can do for you…” he cut him short, without letting emotion show in his voice. Alexander was struck dumb. He was angry. Hephaestion was really angry at him.

 Only once had he seen that look on his face and it had been once back at Pella when his father had called him effeminate in front of his Companions in a drinking fit. Hephaestion had been about to murder the King then and there and only didn’t because Alexander saw his expression in time and clasped his hand under the table, preventing him from doing anything violent.

 Now he had taken some steps back from the bed, fully dressed and at the ready, like the General he was. His stance indicated that he was waiting for an order.

 Alexander panicked. He had to take control of the situation again. Hephaestion was dangerous when truly angry, not because he exploded but because he _imploded_ with feeling. The King quickly replayed his words in his mind, trying to find fault in them, anything that might have offended the mighty pride of his lover. Was it the mention of his days back in Mieza or the comparison with the Homeric heroes? Hephaestion stayed unmoving, not a single emotion showing in his gaze. Alexander found no fault in his claims and as the General started to bow towards him, the King stood up in sheer alarm, stark naked as he was and completely vulnerable before him. Bowing was for Persians, not his only real friend.

 “If you start hating me, General Hephaestion, I will burn myself along with the rest of the city”. He said in a commanding voice, trying to lighten the mood by the absurdity of his sentimental words.

 Hephaestion simply finished bowing his head towards the King, a slight movement that indicated a separation of sensitivity. He wasn’t Alexander’s Hephaestion anymore; there was nothing about him that indicated anything else but duty towards his King.

 “I take my leave then, my King”.

 Without another word, he turned on his heels and walked towards the tent flap, plainly ignoring Alexander’s blatant intake of breath.

 “If you walk out of this tent, don’t dare to come back as anything but my General” Alexander half yelled, pleading desperately for the attention of the side of Hephaestion he knew so well, the one devoted to him not as a humble servant but as his equal.

 Hephaestion barely paused in his stride, and without turning around he whispered in a calm voice, “I’ll keep you informed of the situation around Persepolis, my King. Rest well”.

 The tent flap fell behind him, leaving behind an echo of laughter and kisses not long ago shared. Alexander fell on top of the bed, shocked to his very last bone.

His Phae had never talked to him like that, except around other people. The day he had taken the throne of Macedon, after the painful affair of his father’s assassination, he had pleaded with Hephaestion to stop calling him “my King” and to simply call him “Alexander”. He had taken him aside, and between whispered words and soft looks, Hephaestion had promised him that he would always be his Alexander before being his King. He had always held unto that knowledge, one of the few that helped him keep calm between battles, reminding him of the duty he had towards his subjects and the love he had towards his men, all supported by the idea of Hephaestion’s loyalty to him as a person, not a deity or a King. Just Alexander to him, nothing more.

The cries of the Persians suddenly rose in clamor and Alexander realized that the sun had finally risen above Persepolis. He could see without really seeing the Palace, covered in ashes, not silhouetted against the rising sun anymore, but shining in its destroyed beauty by the full light brought by Helios. The charioteer had brought light and truth along with it, leaving behind only grief as the gods often did.

A touch of truth could turn even the strongest men towards the path of madness. Alexander thought this over and over again as he lay back on the Royal bed, the one that Darius’ had once shared with his endless concubines and eunuchs, flatterers and glorifiers. He thought of the retinue of bodies belonging to the King of Kings and the few, if any, retinue of minds following his own.

The change of guard started outside the perimeter of the tent and Alexander lost himself in the sound of clanging armor and long sarissas trailing in the dust, for once confusing his grief with his melancholy, his burning desire for greatness with his urgency to be understood.

Persepolis had burned and now none would dare rise against him. Only the one closest to him.

The one, the _only_ one that truly mattered not to the King of Kings, but to Alexander.


End file.
